


L’Église de Saint Germain des Prés

by ThatBritishBoy



Category: Vampire Chronicles - All Media Types, Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: Blood, Churches, Healing, Historical References, Love Confessions, M/M, Mentions of Marius de Romanus, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Promises, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-24 02:01:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14345604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatBritishBoy/pseuds/ThatBritishBoy
Summary: Lestat wakes to find his lover not within his coffin. He quickly leaves their flat in search of him within the Paris streets, knowing exactly where he went. The one place he resents the most.





	L’Église de Saint Germain des Prés

The darkness of the evening had made the once bustling streets of Paris calm to a near perfect silence. Though it still remained a city, and as the gentleman taking strides down the black cobblestone knew, the city never truly slept. The stones under his feet shown golden from the new street lamps Parisian officials had decided to install. Much more useful than those pesky gas lit ones that always seemed to blow out. Though it made hiding in the shadows of the streets that much harder.

From a distance the gentleman could hear the bars and people laughing, cars and ambulances. No the city never slept, but as he turned the corner onto Rue de l’Abbaye and Place Saint-Germain des Prés the world seemed to stand still. His goal had come into view. L’Église de Saint Germain des Prés.

He pulled his suit jacket closer, the navy blue doing wonders for his dangerously cerulean eyes, but now was never the time for his appearance. His hair was a dishevelled mess, his tie on crooked, and now more than ever he wished he had grabbed more than a silk scarf to keep this chill at bay. No, Lestat would never enter the streets of Paris looking anything less than perfect, so why had he been frantically pacing the streets, not once paying mind to the delicious passer-by’s? Whatever was he doing far from the tourist routes, far from the bars, the life, the heart of the city?

His lover had disappeared at eventide, and only he knew where he had run off to. He knew exactly where his lover must be, having already searched his favourite watering hole. No there was one place he knew all too well. He had always avoided the touristy cathedral of Notre Dame, preferring one more secluded at night, and with just as much history.

The cathedral loomed overhead, a presence that even had someone like Lestat ever so nervous. Its white stones reflecting brightly in contrast to the wet stones around it. The smell of rain still stained the streets around them, but the skies had long since cleared up to reveal inky blackness above. Not even the Northern Star would guide Parisians tonight. The bell tower seemed to impose over him, but he knew not to hold fear with the church. Even as a monster, he could still find sanctuary within its cold walls.

Lestat crossed the street quickly, keeping his head bowed and one hand steadying the simple hat he wore. Hopefully no one would notice a tall, long haired blonde man entering the back door of the church before him. He glanced around the streets once more before disappearing behind large dark oak doors. Lestat removed his hat, force of habit from the years of his mother teaching him how to behave under the eyes of the lord. Ironic at best.

He took a deep breath, churches still making him as anxious as they had once long ago. Though no longer from the desire and excitement he once experienced within their stone facade. No, this was nerves. Perhaps from the fact he was not meant to be within the presence of the lord… or perhaps… for the task at hand?

Lestat took careful steps forward, his feet not making a sound on the old stone floors. Yes the church hadn’t changed… Still the same Old Catholic stench of old times. His nose wrinkled in distaste of the smell of worn bibles and dust. No one resented a church nearly as much as his lover though.

Oh but how that dust worked its magic because as Lestat made his way into the chapel, his breath was stolen, or would have been. Had he still been able to breath? The dust reflected something only his vampire eyes could see. Auras of gold dancing from the high ceilings of the cathedrals. Golds and reds blead upwards into once navy but worn ceilings seemed to paint a night sky for those who dare entered the building at night. Rows of old wooden pews, dark oak in colour, lined the room directing Lestat in the direction of what he had come searching for.

There before the white and golden marble alter, knelt his beloved. Lestat’s body relaxed as his eyes meet the form before him before settling in defeat. His shoulders seemed to suddenly carry the weight of the ambiance around them, as if the mere pressure of the lord was there and upon him at once. Of course he would come here, as if to torture himself more. It was a sick joke, but one Lestat had become quiet accustomed to.

He quietly approached the youth. His knees sinking as soon as he came in contact with the marble he sat upon. Lestat reached out gently, waiting so not to spook his lover. His hands pressed lightly on the tan clad shoulder of his darling love. Olive green met midnight blue as their gazes meet one another.

Lestat could lie and pretend he hadn’t been rather miffed at realising his darling was better dressed and composed than him, that was until, he saw those red stains on his face, and on the white marble below. His composure broke and he quickly held his lover with in his arms. Cradling the younger man in his grasp. There were several shudders and sobs, before his beloved relaxed within his hold, his face pressed firmly to Lestat’s neck. Hands tangled into copper curls as he held him closer, hushing him softly.

“Armand…” Lestat spoke in the faintest of whispers, “whatever are you doing within this damned church once more?” His voice soft enough so that only they could hear. No sense in offending the entire parish.

They sat in silence for what felt like centuries, even for them. The elder collecting an old pocket hankie he had been thoughtful enough to grab while rushing from their shared flat. “Armand.” He murmured. His hands made quick work to remove those red stains from his lover’s porcelain skin. “Let me take you home chère. Our home.” He caressed those cheeks, conveying nothing more than tender love. “Where you are safe.” He promised him, never having spoken a lie to the youth before him, not while he was like this.

But it was never that simple, he was quickly pushed away, groaning at the force despite himself. His lover once more thrown over the marble steps of the church. Lestat frowned deeply, having probably given himself wrinkles if it wasn’t from his eternal youth. “Armand…” He sighed softly.

“You will betray me just as he did.” Armand hissed taking Lestat by surprise. The elder let out an exasperated sigh, this once more.

“You are aware I have no ties with the lord Armand.” He declared for anyone who may be listening to them. “Yet here I am, kneeled before Mary herself, to bring you home. And once more you accuse me of the mere idea of leaving you. I am cruel, yes. I am a monster, yes.” He cupped the other man’s face forcing him to look at him. “But I have no plans to ever betray your trust, or misuse you.” He breathed softly. His eyes searching hopelessly in olive green forests. “I love you.”

Armand’s face twisted in a range of emotions the other knew too well. He was about to argue such a concept. “Don’t.” Lestat demanded, stopping him before he could argue once more. “I kneel here. Before her.” He whispered. “From a man who once wanted nothing more than to join the parish as a boy… a monster who even still pleads for forgiveness…” He whispered voice wavering. “I kneel here before her and you, and testify my undying faithful love to you. You Armand.” He pulled him into a kiss, sweet and tender and stained with the taste of Armand and his own blood. Lestat had not even realised he had begun to weep.

It was unimaginable not to begin to cry in such a gut wrenching moment. Even for the brat prince himself. He was thankful to have worn such dark colours, so not to stain another silk shirt with blood. It was all too often, yet Lestat refused to give up such luxuries.

He stood slowly, his hand held out for his dearest. “I am not him Armand. You have no reason to fear my loss.” He promised him, eyes soft with only the truest emotions. He knew Armand feared nothing of his own betrayal. No this was a boy who had once lost all he had loved. A boy who still feared his lovers leaving him alone once more. Lestat would change that. He would teach the boy that love was something beautiful… even if it took centuries. Hell, he had the time. “I promise.”

At those words, ivory fingers hesitantly clasped over his own sallow ones as he helped his lover to his feet. Armand looked up at him searching for any sign of a lie. Any sign that this was all some petty game. But just as Lestat had said, there was no lie or deception. “Daylight is almost upon us… Take me home Lestat.” He whispered, and Lestat happily did just that, leaving only the stains of blood on the marble as the only intimation of their presence.


End file.
